Faces of the Defeated
by showmaster64x
Summary: Obi-Wan Kenobi has failed the galaxy and searches for new meaning in his broken existence. Luke adjusts to life on Coruscant. Owen Lars stumbles upon some classified information. Sequel to "The Little Man"
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I woke up one day and realized I'd written a hefty amount of pages for a story I was never going to post. So I figured I'd post it. There was one review in particular that inspired this story, but I won't say the name, because spoilers. You'll know who you are, soon enough.

This story is a direct sequel to my other story "The Little Man." Go read that if you haven't. This story won't make much sense otherwise. Also, it is unbeta-ed so I apologize for missing words and spelling errors.

Faces of the Defeated

Chapter 1

Obi-Wan hung from his wrists in his cell, his body suspended so that his feet barely brushed the cold, white floor below. His joints creaked and ached under the strain of holding his entire weight and he quickly became alarmed in discovering that he could not draw in enough air.

It was ridiculous... he'd wanted death for so long now that he should consider this a blessing or a mercy, but that primal part of his brain, the part that was incapable of rational thought, took control of his body, forced his muscles to flex, forced his arms to pull himself higher so that he might take one more sweet breath of the prison atmosphere.

There was nothing left for him. He'd failed, and now Palpatine knew everything, combing the deepest depths of his mind to rip out and discard the last of his remaining hope. The galaxy was lost. The Jedi were lost... and this was the end.

" _Padawan,"_ It was a voice he'd not heard in many many years, and the version in his dreams had grown distorted over time, yet he'd recognize it anywhere.

"Mast... er..." Obi-Wan sobbed, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes to join the others already accumulated in his beard in his more pathetic moments.

" _What is it you need?"_ Qui-Gon's specter asked him. He didn't show any particular distress at his former padawan's situation, proof perhaps that in the afterlife, stresses on the body and mind were made irrelevant.

"I need... guidance."

" _You can die, or you can live with the taint forever,"_ came the simple response, no bias toward either choice. Qui-Gon knew what it was he was considering, what was lurking in the shadows of his mind.

"Is… it... so terrible?" Obi-Wan gasped, desperation clear in his hoarse voice. And he did not speak of death, for death could not be anything but release at this stage.

" _For you? No. It will be intoxicating. But it is an addiction, one that is impossible to break. In time it will either consume you, or not a day will go by where you don't consider letting it."_

Obi-Wan shuttered, letting out the last of the air in his lungs. Knowing that he would have to lift himself to get another good breath, and knowing also that he didn't have the strength to do so really limited his time to meditate on the issue. He took a few, stunted inhales.

"Is the... Force …finished with me?! Have I ...fulfilled my ...purpose!?" he demanded of the shade before him. Qui-Gon spent an agonizing moment with his hand to his chin and his head cocked to one side as he considered. _Say yes_ , Obi-Wan begged in his mind, _By the light! Say yes and absolve me of my worldly sins. Allow me a reason to let go!_

" _Have you?"_ Qui-Gon wondered out loud before fading into the ether. Obi-Wan whimpered in impotent rage, muscles cramping, arms straining, chest heaving.

He retreated into his mind, then, deeper than he'd gone in a long time, into that area that young Jedi were taught to rope off or lock up before truly beginning their training.

For Obi-Wan, it took the form of a stone well, dredged up from some childhood memory long forgotten. He stared down into the hole, into the swirling, black waters below. Always a temptation, always a curiosity, never a possibility.

He let himself fall head first, plunging into water that was not cold and icy but warm and soothing. The black currents swirled around him, caressing, whispering. Energy flooded him, sent up from reserves yet untapped until he was filled with a strength he'd never felt before.

In the detention cell, Obi-Wan opened his eyes again. He lifted himself and breathed.

A rotation passed before his visitor came again. Palpatine entered calmly, with no guard or escort. Obi-Wan was dropped onto the floor unceremoniously.

"You're still alive," the Emperor observed, mildly amused. The old man reached down to grasp his prisoner by the face, skeletal fingers digging into hollow cheeks. Obi-Wan was unable to pull away, forced instead to stare into yellow, deceitful eyes.

"I no longer have need of you, Master Jedi, but still you refuse to die. Perhaps I should let my apprentice decide your fate."

Obi-Wan rather liked the idea. It would certainly be a more dignified death than whatever Sidious had planned for him. The Emperor seized upon this unshielded thought.

"We are in agreement then. The killing of one's master is a rite of passage for a Sith, much like your Jedi Trials," the old man released him suddenly, turning away. "However, I rather enjoy living, therefore, your death will have to suffice."

Exhaustion was catching up with Obi-Wan, and he tried to stave it off as he'd done before, but now that the immediate threat to his life had been removed, there was no need to sustain himself by unnatural means.

How terribly rude of him to fall asleep while the Chancellor was speaking... Hopefully the council would forgive him...

.o.o.o.o.o.

When Obi-Wan woke again, the Chancellor was gone, his fellow Jedi were gone, and he remained in a prison cell. The disorientation persisted for some time. His dreams had been feverish and full of darkness. Even now he could still feel the dark energy thrumming through his veins, remnants of his brush with the forbidden.

The outer door to his cell slid open, revealing the droid that always brought his food. It was a rather simple machine that did not speak or perform any function other than to deliver supplies to the detention level occupants. Its one notable feature was that it had been designed to pass through ray shields without becoming damaged.

The tray was suddenly flung at Obi-Wan, and food splattered both on and around him. Even as unexpected as the action was, Obi-Wan did not have energy enough to clean himself off. The tray clattered to the floor within his line of vision and he noticed something peculiar. There were words scratched hastily into the metal, barely visible from where a sticky sauce had been smeared over them.

 _Take Cover Obi-Wan Kenobi_ , it read.

An explosion tore through the detention level.

.o.o.o.o.o.

"Get up and carry your own weight, old man or we will never get out of here alive!" a young, fully tattooed Zabrak was hollering in Obi-Wan's face as he came around. His ears were ringing. He could feel the soot all over his body and the blaster fire zinging past him. He was being dragged. Turning his head as far as he could, he saw that he was in a hanger of some sort. Two men in were with him. One had hold of his arm, the Zabrak. He was in trooper armor but seemed to have discarded the helmet. An accomplice trailed behind them in the uniform of an Imperial officer. He was a blonde fellow in his late twenties or early thirties with kind eyes.

Get out alive. Who even cared anymore? Who were these men that would risk their lives for the failure that was Obi-Wan Kenobi?

"You said we would be in and out before the alarm was raised!" the Zabrak complained as he set Obi-Wan over his shoulder so that they might travel faster.

"Change of plan," the other answered, unapologetic. He raised a shield emitter to block more incoming blaster fire. A shuttle loomed ahead, the engines already prepped for takeoff and they managed to climb onto the ramp just as it began to close. Laser cannon fire clipped them soon after that, but the shields held.

"He's damaged," the Zabrak commented, leaning over Obi-Wan and prodding a blaster wound in his leg. "The Witch King will not be pleased."

"I will handle it," the blonde man answered. He was stripping off his officer's uniform and replacing it with blue and white Mandalorian armor. "Go man the rear gun. I expect we'll have company soon." The Zabrak growled his displeasure with the order, but heeded it nonetheless. Obi-Wan was left alone in the hold with the Mandalorian.

Something had caught his interest, so much so that it had kept him from slipping again into unconsciousness. This man was familiar.

"Have we met?" Obi-Wan croaked. It was so weak that he doubted for a moment that he'd made himself heard, and that was unfortunate, because he did not have the strength to try again.

But then the young man turned to him, his pale, blue eyes met Obi-Wan's and his expression turned briefly to one of sadness.

"No, Master Kenobi, we have not," the man said softly. Emotions flowed through the force, tangible in their intensity. Obi-Wan felt his regret, his rage, his guilt, his pity, but they were all quickly shut away and the young man placed the Mandalorian helmet upon his head before making a hasty exit.

They stayed in hyperspace for several hours, and perhaps a few more that Obi-Wan was not awake for. When he next opened his eyes, he was no longer on the ship. And he was seeing red. At first he assumed it to be a problem with his vision. It would not be the only thing failing him in that moment.

But no. It was red mist hanging in the air all around. He was being dragged through a forest by his two rescuers. He had seen this mist before. He had been on this planet before. Why was he reminded of Anakin?

" _...Oh this place is all kinds of fun,"_ he remembered Anakin saying, voice full of irony and hands thrown in the air, exasperated. They had been surrounded by this same, swirling mist.

" _I'm glad you think so,"_ Obi-Wan had retorted, hadn't he? How long ago had that been? What had they been doing? He couldn't remember, he couldn't seem to sift the reality from the steadily growing madness in his mind.

There was a temple ahead, reduced mostly to ruin. Shells of old droids and Separatist weaponry littered the ground. The bones of the fallen snapped underfoot. In the darkened interior of the temple, Obi-Wan was deposited onto the floor. He could not stand, he could not move and nor did he have any desire to do so. The stone was cold against his cheek.

"We've completed the task," the Zabrak announced to some unseen occupant, sounding quite pleased with himself. The blonde man removed his helmet, but he did not add anything, and instead just stood with his head bowed.

The unseen occupant approached, deliberate and slow footsteps on gritty stone.

"I have been waiting _so_ long..." a new voice whispered, sending shivers up Obi-Wan's spine before his mind even made the connection. The bedraggled Jedi was forced over onto his back so that he could stare blankly up at a face that had colored his nightmares for so many years.

Maul studied him, disgust darkening his aging features, lip curling in anger.

"He has ruined you!" the Sith hissed, prowling around Obi-Wan's prone form, fists clenched, harnessing a barely concealed rage. He wore a set of dusty, red robes displaying a variety of tribal symbols that trailed on the ground behind him. "You were never his to break! That honor was to be mine! Mine alone!" Maul grabbed Obi-Wan by his tattered tunic, lifting his thin and wasted body so that they were eye level. "What use are you to me like this?!" Maul demanded, giving his adversary a rough shake, "How am I to exact my revenge on a man already dead inside?!"

Obi-Wan, of course, did not answer, so Maul ripped into his mind, inspecting the mess that Sidious had left behind, shifting through his thoughts, his desires, his secrets. Once finished, the Sith let out a feral growl of frustration, tossing his broken captive away with the aid of the force.

Obi-Wan felt his body connect with a wall, and the breath was knocked from his lungs.

"That wretched slime! He will pay! Even if I cannot kill him, I will be sure to destroy all that he values. His precious Empire will fall, even if I have to dismantle it bit by bit. I will ensure that there remains no galaxy left for him to rule!" Maul turned his back, still trembling in his rage.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes. The Force had indeed had a plan for him. He was to meet his end like this. At the hands of Maul... not Sidious... not Vader. He would die the same way his master had three decades ago in that fateful duel. How very poetic. When the war between Sith and Jedi began anew, Maul had had the honor of taking the life of the first Jedi, and now he would take the last.

They were all gone. All of them. The thought was so lonely that it was unbearable. Maul did not miss this sorrowful sentiment.

"That," Maul sighed, closing his eyes in absolute bliss, anger fleeing from him abruptly, "That is the despair that I have always wished to instill in you, Kenobi. All I ever wanted was to bring you down, to reduce you to this. A total and complete loss of hope. Alas, this is no victory of mine." Maul turned again, this time to address his two followers. He gestured vaguely in Obi-Wan's direction.

"Dispose of him," the Sith ordered.

"Wait," the blonde Mandalorian spoke up, his voice ringing in the vast, stone chamber. He seemed to immediately regret his outburst, but nevertheless did not retract it, even when Maul rounded on him, closing the distance until he could look down upon the human.

"Wait?" Maul mocked quietly, "Do you think so mightily of yourself these days that _you_ would dare command _me_?"

"He may still be of some use to you," the young man reasoned, drawing courage as spoke.

"Do not _lie_ to my face. Did you think your interest in this decrepit Jedi somehow escaped my notice? I know what is in your mind, boy, and it is weakness."

"He could become a valuable asset... the very last Jedi, and he belongs now to the Shadow Collective."

"Look at him. Useless. His mind is gone. And your emotions betray you, Mandalorian." The two of them stood there for a time, simply squaring off. The human man stood tall, facing the horned menace that was Maul while the old Sith glared back, awaiting a concession.

Eventually Maul waved a dismissive hand in Obi-Wan's general direction.

"This wreck is now your charge," the older Zabrak explained, "though I suspect he is not long for this world."

"Thank you," the young man said. Maul had begun to walk away, hands clasped behind his back, red robes trailing behind him, but he suddenly turned his head to regard his lackey out of the corner of his eye.

"I've done you no favors, boy. Let us not pretend otherwise."

.o.o.o.o.o.

A/N: He's not an OC


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Palpatine walked calmly along a corridor of his detention level, red guards fanned out both in front of him and behind him. Even hours after the event, dust particles still hung suspended in the air, and smells of burnt or melted materials hadn't yet dissipated.

The blast itself had been small, but concentrated, and only large enough to destroy the ray shielded opening of a particular cell.

"Your Majesty!" a red garbed officer exclaimed as Palpatine approached, "This area is not yet secure. It would be safer if you waited-"

"It is quite safe, captain. The damage has been done," the Emperor dismissed harshly. "Report," he then ordered. The man straightened.

"Forgive me, Majesty, I have been attempting to contact Commander Mir-"

"Commander Mir has been executed for his gross incompetence. A security breach of this magnitude is intolerable." And good riddance, Palpatine mused inwardly. The man had proved himself to be a lazy fool, all ambition lost once he had achieved the post he'd been striving for. It had been a curious day, for this weakness planted within his own palace's security had been meant to lure out a certain rebel faction, but it was possible that it had attracted... something else.

"I understand," the captain answered stiffly. "We have not been able to determine the identity of those responsible. They had access to the security recordings and instructed the cameras in this particular area to loop. However several men reported seeing an unknown officer in this sector prior to the blast. We are compiling an artist sketch based on the descriptions. It would seem that the intruders were planning to enter and exit undetected, but they had not anticipated the interior ray shield and were forced to take drastic measures in order to free the prisoner."

"There were no prisoners freed, Captain," the emperor corrected, "The prisoner in this particular cell was moved several hours before the event took place." The captain opened his mouth, puzzled and unsure how to respond, so Palpatine broke it down for him.

"The ray shield generator suffered a serious malfunction. No prisoners were freed and no one is to discover what occurred here, especially Lord Vader. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly, Majesty."

.o.o.o.o.o.

Obi-Wan sat up in the dungeon that was his bedchamber. It was a simple room. A single, grated window and no furnishings aside from a bed. He would like so say it was his new prison, but that would be inaccurate. The door was unlocked, and had been since the moment he'd arrived. No one seemed to care if he were to leave or not.

Yet they made a special effort to see that he did not die.

The Sisters came in when Dathomir's hazy star broke over the horizon. The wore the garb of the red witches that Obi-Wan remembered from all those years ago, and were very young, perhaps still adolescents. Their grasp of Galactic Basic seemed limited, though Obi-Wan did not attempt to speak to them. They cleaned the healing wounds on his wrists and forced water and broth down his throat at various intervals throughout the day.

Slowly, Obi-Wan felt his strength returning, and it was cause for dismay because he could only imagine what sort of new torture it precluded.

Often the Mandalorian came and sat by his bedside, usually about three nights per standard week, ever faithful in the oversight of Obi-Wan's care. Obi-Wan had no idea why he bothered. Did he not have duties to attend to? What was his position here, even? Had Maul been attempting to revive the Shadow Collective in these lost years? What was there to gain anymore?

The man usually took out a datapad to amuse himself, reading it even with his helmet on. It seemed there was always a book downloaded onto it and one day Obi-Wan glanced at the screen as it displayed the title.

 _The Jedi: A History of Warmongering and Oppression_

Yes, that was what he was to the galaxy now, a villain, a traitor, the enemy. A lifetime of well-intentioned deeds and a personal struggle against the dark and hedonistic desires of the common man now amounted to nothing. The galaxy had turned on him for doing what was right. What hope was there for anyone?

"None of these authors ever gets the Jedi involvement in Mandalore correct," the blonde man complained after perhaps an hour of silence. He set down the datapad. "They attempt to paint the Jedi as the terrorists, when everyone knows the Jedi were never actually involved. I suppose it fits their narrative. The more dead babies they can blame on you the better. It must drive you up a wall."

Obi-Wan did not answer. He never did. This Mandalorian never seemed bothered by the silence, however, and he would continue to talk regardless if Obi-Wan was listening. The Jedi wondered at the beginning if the man was slightly unhinged, but then again, it was just as likely that he was lonely. He did seem to be the only one of his race around.

"The Republic had no respect for war and the actions that sometimes must be taken during wartime. It was no coincidence that as soon as the Clone Wars ended and the Republic became the Empire, they immediately had to dispose of the Jedi. Violence is so very unpopular with civilizedsystems these days," the man mused, "They used you... and then they discarded you."

He spoke like a politician, intelligent enough to identify propoganda and truths hidden within lies. He saw the shades of grey in the galaxy. He must have had an expensive education somewhere. Mandalore, most likely, if the armor was anything to go by.

The next time the man came, Obi-Wan asked what it was he was reading. He barely even recognized his own voice as it left him.

"An analysis of the Tarkin doctrine," the Mandalorian answered casually, "A most fascinating study of the average Imperial's psyche. Ruling by fear does have it merits, I suppose, but I think the problem lies in forcing everyone to fear you. There will always be people insane enough to oppose such an administration so long as there remain people insane enough to put a cause above their own lives."

After that day, Obi-Wan began to ask about the books more often. Sometimes he would ask questions. Sometimes he would offer his own ideas about the text. Eventually he was offering up suggestions on what the younger man should read next and would ask that certain passages be read out loud to him during their study of the text.

He saw what was happening, he saw how he was being manipulated into caring, once again, about the happenings in the physical realm. At first he resisted, tried to shut himself away once more, but it did him little good. Gradually he was coaxed from behind the protective barriers of his mind.

"I should think, Master Kenobi, that you are now strong enough to leave that bed," the man commented one afternoon as he set aside his datapad, "I realize that Dathomir isn't considered to be the most beautiful of planets, but perhaps you might find _some_ enjoyment in a short stroll around the Night Temple."

So he was to be paraded around the temple now? Was this a new form of humiliation? Maul had to know he was beyond such things, especially now that he was old and broken.

No, his thoughts were steeped in paranoia and darkness. Perhaps this wasn't anything to do with Maul. Perhaps this man sincerely wished for him to gain back his strength, but any possible reason he could have for wanting to do this was maddeningly elusive.

The armored man stood waiting, and Obi-Wan knew it would be impolite to decline the invitation. Slowly, bones creaking, he raised himself from the bed, placed his feet on the floor and stood stiffly. There were robes and boots set aside for him, and he pulled them on absently.

They hadn't even reached the door before Obi-Wan had to grab a wall for support. The Mandalorian was there to hook his arm through his own and force him to continue on.

"Steady there, Master Kenobi."

Dathomir's star was high overhead, and it glared through the areas of the temple that had been demolished. Towers lied in crumbled heaps, outlying buildings had been leveled completely. Evidence of war had been stamped into the very walls in the form of blaster scorches. The last the Obi-Wan had been in this temple, it had been whole and beautiful, albeit eerie and haunted by dark side ghosts and witches.

"How did this happen?" Obi-Wan found himself asking of the destruction all around him.

"Some of it was done by Grievous, some by Dooku, some merely by the forces of time and nature," the Mandalorian answered easily.

Down the crumbling corridor and through an arcade of branches bent to form a tunnel, Obi-Wan was led to the entrance of some sort of sacrament chamber. If he remembered correctly, this was where he and Anakin had once met the dark witch, Mother Talzin, during the Clone Wars.

There was a queue of people lined up outside. All of them were either Dathomiran or Zabrak. All of them were young children or hardly beyond adolescence. They were dressed in rags. Some of the older ones were missing limbs, some coughed into their sleeves. A Dathomiran girl at the front had a face covered in pox.

"They are here for a healing," Obi-Wan's guide explained, and Obi-Wan who had until this point only been viewing his surroundings through the bleak lens of man detached from the living world suddenly found himself interested.

"A healing..." the old Jedi heard himself repeat. This line of people had hope. They believed in something. They had a will to go on, even in these dark times. Life carried on no matter what. Obi-Wan closed his eyes for a moment. The Force was showing him something here, something he was not meant to ignore even if he could not yet take the lesson to heart.

Resilience in the face of adversity.

"Are there villages nearby?" Obi-Wan asked. These people were not Nightsisters, at least they were not like the ones that had been caring for him in his tower, and Obi-Wan had been under the impression that this temple had been a recluse for those practicing the dark arts of the convent.

"They've sprung up over the years," the younger man answered, "Dathomir's population was devastated during the war. The temple, after its ruin, became a storage base for the Shadow Collective. After the Collective lost its power, it was decided the supplies would be used to help rebuild Dathomir.

"Decided by who?"

"Lord Maul, of course," chuckled the Mandalorian, "Or as the locals call him 'The Witch King.' This temple has become a holy place to the outlying people now, and they make pilgrimages even outside of the need for food and medicine. What once was feared is now hailed as Dathomir's salvation. The Witch King has united what remained of Dathomir's warring tribes and ushered in an era of peace. It is a pity that he does not regard a commitment to peace as a sign of progress."

A memory spiked in Obi-Wan's mind with those last words. He'd heard them spoken before. On a rooftop garden in Sundari.

"I know you," Obi-Wan insisted, turning suddenly on his guide, Dathomir's plight forgotten in the moment. The Mandalorian took a step back, confused.

"I assure you, Master Kenobi, that we never met before I broke you out of the Imperial Palace's detention level."

"I know you! I remember you!" Obi-wan repeated. Either he was going mad, or this man was lying. "Take off your helmet!" Regardless, Obi-wan would drive himself into further madness until he knew the truth. He grasped at the white and blue armor of the Mandalorian, but the younger, healthier, and stronger man used a simple, defensive maneuver to send the old Jedi to the ground. Obi-Wan sat there for a while, panting and pulling at his thinning hair. Memories. The memories were so painful.

"You are remembering someone else."

Slowly, Obi-Wan's breathing returned to normal as the statement sunk in. _You are remembering someone else._ Yes, yes he was. A rooftop garden in Sundari. A musty mining control room on Concordia. A landing platform upon Coruscant. A dining room upon the _Coronet._

"Forgive me, I... lost myself for a moment," Obi-Wan said after a period where he needed to collect his scattered thoughts.

"It is quite alright, Master Kenobi. Perhaps you would like to return to your chambers now?"

"Yes, I suppose that might be best," Obi-Wan answered, still holding his head as if it pained him. The young man extended his hand in order to help Obi-Wan to his feet. The Jedi accepted it, and parted ways with the Mandalorian at his door.

But the memories plagued him that night, and every night after it. Now that Obi-Wan was mobile, he took to wandering the halls, the hood of his robes pulled over his head as if to hide himself from the world. The others ignored him. Some days he felt no more substantial than a ghost.

He would watch the young Mandalorian from afar as the man carried out his duties. They most often included training the Nightsister acolytes in different forms of combat, but occasionally he would be sent away on a landspeeder piled high with supplies meant for another part of the planet, and sometimes he would board a starfighter and be gone for several days at a time.

Obi-Wan's questions were answered one morning as he stood concealed behind a statue of a red witch, one of several, carved sentinels that held up the main platform of the temple above. In the area beyond that shadows of the temple, a cargo shuttle was being unloaded, revealing various pieces of agricultural equipment. The Mandalorian was overseeing the work. He had his helmet off and his blonde hair was gleaming in the early light.

"There is just something about him, isn't there?" a low, mocking voice remarked from behind Obi-Wan. The Jedi turned abruptly to see Maul leaning against the adjacent pillar, cast partially in darkness. Obi-Wan was instantly on guard, wasted muscles taut with anticipation. It was easy to forget that this was Maul's domain when he so rarely made his presence known.

Seeing the twisted sneer upon the old Sith's face, Obi-Wan was reminded that this creature wished him nothing but pain, and always had. That they had recently coexisted in relatively close quarters did little to diminish that. Maul's movements were slow and predatory as he pushed off of his pillar and circled around Obi-Wan to stand on his other side, observing the same scene that the Jedi had previously. "A tad... familiar... wouldn't you say?" Maul continued, testing him. Obi-Wan stood stiffly, prepared for an attack, but Maul only had words for him.

"He hasn't told you his name," the Sith guessed, "A shame."

"He is called Commander Pax," Obi-Wan answered, surprising himself with his own serenity, knowing that by speaking he was entering into Maul's game, but he was finding that he just couldn't keep up the strength he would need to fight.

"Yes, that is the silly name that he gave himself, but it is not the name he was born with. Come now Kenobi, don't you see it?"

"I've no idea what you're talking about," Obi-Wan lied.

"He's _begged_ me not to tell you," Maul carried on dramatically, "Begged just as pathetically as his dear Auntie begged while she gasped for breath." Obi-Wan felt his heart stutter even as Maul kept on speaking. "He seems to believe you'd somehow think less of him if you knew, but I think you deserve to know that truth, Kenobi."

"Stop." Obi-Wan whispered, even though he knew it would do him no good.

"No," Maul growled. He lashed out a hand and grabbed the back of Obi-Wan's neck, forcing him to look back at the Mandalorian. "That is the nephew of your beloved Duchess. He is mine to command! Everything you hold dear is mine! Even things you didn't know you held dear are mine! Do you understand, Kenobi?"

Obi-Wan's mind had gone strangely blank. He didn't know his hands had balled into fists and he didn't know he'd taken a swing at the old Zabrak until after he'd done it. Maul captured his fist easily, crushing it in his grip. Obi-Wan's mouth opened in a gasp of pain. He was kicked in the ribcage, the force of it sending him reeling several feet. He sank to the floor.

"Disgusting," Maul remarked dismissively He eyed the hand that had touched Obi-Wan as if it was now filthy, "And no longer nearly as satisfying." He then folded his arms into his sleeves and departed again into the shadows without a backward glance.

.o.o.o.o.o.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

It was not quite dawn, with rain lashing the windows of the Imperial Palace's upper floors in these early hours. Rain had always been a cause for anxiety upon Tatooine, at least for a man in the business of selling water. Even now, though Owen Lars was no longer a moisture farmer, the softer pitter patter of droplets hammering the outside of a building still induced a subconscious unease. Free water had always been a threat to his very existence, and it would be a long time before he would come to think otherwise.

When Owen reached the doors to Lord Vader's residence he was stopped by a trooper standing guard in the hall.

"Director Lars, Lord Vader is expecting you. However, I would advise you to wait out here for the time being." From behind the doors, Owen caught the sounds raised voices, one that of a young boy, and another thundering baritone of a vocoder.

"They're at it again, are they?" Owen asked, unable to hide his annoyance.

"Indeed, sir. Young Luke is very adamant this time."

Owen pulled back the sleeve of his uniform to check his wrist chrono. 05:00. His meeting was not until 08:00 but with how the day was going already, he'd be lucky to make it on time. He shoved his hands into his pockets and prepared to wait.

"I've been coming around here a couple of years now and I never asked for your name," Owen said to the trooper absently.

"It is quite alright sir. I don't have a name. I am a clone."

"Banthashit. All you clones have some sort of nickname."

"In that case, you may call me Sticks, sir."

"Sticks?" said Owen with a raised brow.

"I got into some trouble with some deathsticks once, sir. My batch mates never let me live it down," the trooper answered easily. Owen couldn't help but chuckle. They lapsed into silence and the background noise of the rain became obvious once again.

"Vader seems to have a helluva lot of clones in his personal staff," the former farmer remarked after some time.

"Oh yes, he collects us, for reasons no one knows. Steals us from outer rim hellholes or meaningless security posts and gives us real jobs," the trooper laughed. "Some of the older clones swear that they served alongside Lord Vader in the Clone Wars, but I don't see how that is possible. Nevertheless, he treats us very well. No one ever seems to believe me when I say that."

"Mmm. Can't imagine why..." Owen drawled. At that moment the doors slid open and the black-suited, masked figure that had once been Anakin Skywalker marched through them and down the hall. Luke followed somberly in his wake and Owen had no choice but to follow the both of them. Their path led them down into Vader's personal ship hanger within the Imperial Palace, along the way, guards at their posts straightened to rigid attention, as if they could feel the waves of displeasure coming off both father and son.

Luke had grown quite bit since arriving upon Coruscant, though considering he'd been a rather tiny kid, one might simply say that he was about where he should be now. These days Owen did not see him all that often, perhaps a bit more than once every standard month, but at twelve, the child's features were beginning to morph into those of an adolescent. Luke's assent into maturity was highlighted by his black, distinguished military cut jacket and his ever-present, over serious expression. It didn't suit him. When had Owen last seen the boy laugh?

There was a prepped shuttle awaiting Vader in the hanger, one that would ferry him to his star destroyer currently circling the planet. Presumably, Vader was being called away to put down yet another rebellious uprising on some fringe planet, but Owen never asked the details of Vader's missions. It wasn't his business, and he doubted he'd approve anyway. Truly awful things were done in the name of galactic peace, and Owen wasn't naive enough to think Vader wasn't a part of them.

Owen hung back but Luke followed his father all the way to the base of the ramp. Vader turned to exchange a few more words with his son, and from Luke's gesturing, Owen could guess that they were no less heated than the ones being spoken inside the apartments, though he could not hear them over the shrill whine of the engines.

Vader placed a hand on his son's shoulder and held it there for a while. Eventually, Luke's posture fell in defeat and he stepped away from the ramp to allow it to rise. A few minutes later, the shuttle was maneuvering out of the hanger and blasting into Coruscant's overcast skies.

"I just wish he'd take me with him for once. I'm old enough now," Luke said morosely to Owen when the older man came up behind him.

"Twelve standard ain't old enough for war, boy," Owen scoffed.

"It's old enough to not need a babysitter," Luke snapped back.

"Yeah, well, if you take your father's speeder out without permission and without a pilot's ID, you can expect to destroy his trust in you. Funny, I thought you might have already learned that lesson on the farm."

"Coruscant is boring. All I do is sit in the library with my tutors. Every hour of every day is scheduled. I can't even go outside without at least three bodyguards! I wish I was back on Tatooine," Luke replied darkly.

"You don't mean that."

"We were free on Tatooine," Luke said quietly. Owen closed his eyes for a moment, willing himself not to blindly agree and instead to consider reality over his overwhelming nostalgia.

"Ignorant boy, we were no such thing. We were in hiding. Aye, we may have been freer in some senses. Freer to starve or dehydrate. Freer to be kidnapped and flayed alive by the Tuskens maybe. Now stop moping and come with me." Owen was almost surprised when the boy seemed to have nothing more to say. They wordlessly continued on back to the main hanger, where Owen's personal pilot stood waiting for them near his custom speeder. Owen took in the sight with some pride. He had helped to design and manufacture the model himself, one of the many perks of his job with Sienar Fleet Systems.

"Gunner!" Luke called suddenly as he raced forward and jumped an unnatural distance into the front passenger seat.

"It ain't proper for you to be up front. Get in the back like a proper noble," Owen said, albeit half-heartedly.

"Lieutenant Pine doesn't mind if I sit here, though," Luke replied, blinking innocently at the pilot.

"Of course not, sir."

Owen found himself mumbling some Huttese under his breath as he climbed into the rear seats. The canopy lowered over their heads and they joined the queue to leave the hanger. By the time they finally broke out into open air and merged into the morning traffic, Luke was brooding again. No doubt the boy was thinking about the coming day that he would be spending locked in the Lars' townhome. It had been quite some time since Owen had seen the boy last and he recalled again just how little he knew of Luke's new life. Did the boy have friends in Imperial city? Did he ever have any fun? Somehow Owen doubted it.

Let it not be said that Owen Lars had ever been an advocate for 'fun.' However, he did think back to his own childhood where he and the other Anchorhead boys would spend the late afternoons kicking empty cans through the sand. That counted as 'fun,' didn't it?

"Drop us at the shopping center, Lieutenant," Owen ordered. He was getting used to ordering people around. It was sinfully satisfying.

"Right away, sir." Through the passenger side mirror, Owen saw Luke's face light up considerably.

They arrived at the decadent mall some minutes later, landing on one of the platforms that floated just above.

"Shall I call an escort for you, sir?" Pine asked, looking worriedly over the crowds already amassing below, even at his early hour.

"No need. We can handle ourselves. You're free to go. We'll find our own way back."

"Sir, I must protest-"

"No one knows who we are out here. We'll be fine," Owen said firmly as he exited the speeder behind Luke. Uncle and nephew stepped onto the small hover vehicle that would ferry them down to the shopping center. The metal was wet from the deluge that had only just stopped, but they climbed on all the same.

"You ever been here?" Owen asked.

"No," Luke breathed, eyes wide with wonder, "Father doesn't let me leave the palace block unless I am with him. And usually we only travel to the senate building."

Owen had never been to the mall either. He had people to shop for him now. He would never willingly subject himself to a stuffy shopping center crowded with strangers.

So what was he doing here again?

"Oh Force!" Luke exclaimed as his excitement finally got the better of his trained stoicism. He leaned over the rail, "They have a Neeley's! One of my professors told me they have the best sweets. And that looks like a laser arena! And a hologames store!" Owen had a headache already. He checked his chrono. 06:00. They could burn an hour here, but that was all.

They burned more than an hour. Very easily. Breakfast alone took an hour. Owen did not even check his chrono again until after he was placing his signature upon datapad, verifying his purchase of a new gaming and entertainment system that was to be installed in his townhome later that day. No price was too high to keep Luke occupied. Having money made things so much easier. Back on Tatooine this sort of kid rearing took the form of adding moonshine to Luke's blue milk so that he would fall asleep.

Beru never found out about that.

"I thought you said you had to be at your job at 08:00," Luke commented as they left the store.

"I do," Owen growled. He looked up at the traffic in the skylanes overhead, his heart sinking after noticing the rush hour gridlock. At this point it would be faster to take public transit, as distasteful as that sounded, and Luke would have to come with him.

"C'mon boy, you're coming with me to work," Owen told the child as he began to lead the way toward the sign that displayed the neon signal for the Hyper Rail.

"You're taking me to where they build TIE fighters?"

"Yeah, I guess I am."

The two of them rode a lift down a few levels, and it was rather shocking for Owen to see how quickly Coruscant got seedy. There was graffiti on the walls and trash adorning the walkways. The residents, mostly non humans, were dressed like spacers and thugs. Owen reeled Luke in a tad closer, grateful that he and Luke were looking rather plain at the moment, having stuffed their tailored jackets into Owen's briefcase earlier. Hopefully no one would take an interest in the quality of their boots.

"Now this is much more like Tatooine!" Luke said excitedly, "But the gang symbols are in Aurebesh!"

"Not so loud," Owen advised. He managed to locate the Hyper Rail platform as well as the machines that would dispense tickets for it. Upon the platform there was an Ithorian playing a strange-looking instrument with a cap full of loose credits sitting near his feet.

The train pulled up, following in the wake of an over-loud bell. All of the seats were taken, of course, and so was most of the aisle. He and Luke found a spot toward the front of the car, pressed between the window and the four, sweaty armpits of a Besalisk. Luke did not seem to be put off, much to Owen's relief. He had been worrying that Luke would find this whole situation disgusting and beneath him, but it seemed Owen had judged him unfairly. The Luke he'd raised on Tatooine wasn't entirely gone.

Luke stared patiently out the dark window while the Hyper Rail car lurched forward and gradually began to pick up speed. Coruscant's railways were old, Owen knew. Many of the buildings had been built around them over time, making it appear as if the rail was underground. Occasionally, they broke free of the many tunnels and Coruscant was visible for miles both above and below.

Luke was entranced, and it was not hard to see why. The speeder traffic within the city moved at less than half this speed.

"Is it this your first time on Coruscant, dear?" a kindly, Nautolan woman asked when she noticed Luke's open-mouthed expression. The boy was sure to say something stupid, so Owen answered for him.

"We're from the outer rim," Owen explained, "Ain't no large cities on our home planet."

"It is certainly a wonder to behold. I am very fortunate to be able to call this city home. Coruscant is the one of the only places in the galaxy that accepts people of all different species. I do hope you enjoy your time here."

"Thank you, ma'am," Owen replied. She went back to her reading but he continued to study her, taking note of her dirty face, her shabby clothing, and the way her fingers were dyed purple, perhaps from many years of working in a textile factory. How could someone like her, who surely lived on one of the lowest rungs of society, somehow find it in her heart to love this city when Owen Lars, with his new found riches and success, could not?

He became so entrenched in his thoughts that he almost missed his stop.

"This is the east industrial district. Please exit through the doors on the left. We thank you for riding the Coruscant Hyper Rail," came an automated voice from the speakers. Owen was jolted from his introspection and he grabbed Luke roughly by the arm. They managed to squeeze through the throng of people and exit the train before the doors shut again.

"Wow! That was amazing! Can we take the rail home too?" Luke asked dreamily.

"No," said Owen, already coming to the realization of how unhappy Vader would be should he ever find out about this. His decision became final when he noticed that the platform they'd gotten off on was just as disgusting as the one where they'd boarded, except instead of the Ithorian musician, there was a homeless veteran holding up a sign that read 'Order 66 was slaughter'. The industrial district was not exactly a haven for the wealthy, though Owen had never much paid attention until now. There'd never been any need to think about it when his chauffeur dropped him at the entrance every morning.

It was a short few blocks and a ride up a public lift before uncle and nephew arrived at the building they sought. Owen was almost relieved when he entered back into the world he'd known for two years now, a world where everyone knew who he was and catered to his every need. When had that become the new normal? When had that become comfortable? He ought to be ashamed of himself.

"Listen, boy. This damn meeting wont take longer than an hour. Go up ten floors and walk to the end of the hall. My office is the big one on the right. Lock yourself in there and play with that handheld game thing I just got you. Think you can handle that?" Luke did not take to the suggestion.

"Can't I go look at the fighters?" the boy argued.

"I will show you them later," Owen replied firmly, "Now go." He shooed the boy away, his mind now focused on the hastily arranged meeting already taking place. He spotted his secretary, a sharp, bookish woman named Meara, and an engineer named Saurel hurrying his way. They hesitantly fell into step beside him. Even after the time he'd spent here and demonstrated that he wasn't in the habit of meting out summary executions to those who failed him, people still seemed to fear him for his assumed relation to Darth Vader.

"So what's this all about?" Owen grunted as he walked.

"Orson Krennic is here, sir. He's the director of the military's advanced weapons research division," his secretary said in a low voice.

"What does he want?"

"To put in an order. Seven thousand TIEs, sir," Meara answered primly, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "And twenty five hundred ion cannons."

"Force hell!" Owen swore, "Where does he plan to put them!? Is he arming a planet!?" There was no way this information was correct. The Empire never ordered TIE's in batches larger that few hundred or so and when they did, Owen was normally the first to know about it, him being the unofficial Imperial representative here at Sienar Fleet Systems.

"He also wants to poach about fifty of my engineers and assembly techs for a classified project," Saurel supplied, frowning in discontent. "Sir, I am begging you to do something about this. Rehiring and training that many new workers will put us behind in production."

"Who the hell does this Krennic fellow think he is?!" Owen spat. Something dicey was going on.

He banged his fist down upon the release to the conference room doors.

.o.o.o.o.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Luke stared for a moment at the retreating form of his uncle before turning toward the long corridor where he was meant to go. He followed the hall to a circular area where the elevators were located and pressed the button to summon one of them.

Then he started thinking...

An hour was a long time, and as eager as he was to play with his new GameScreen, which was bright red by the way, he just couldn't ignore the fact that he was in the building where they actually made starfighters. He could find his way back up to Uncle Owen's office before an hour had gone by.

And Uncle Owen would never have to know about his little adventure.

There was a large window across from the bay of elevators and Luke wandered over to it. He saw that he was in the front tower of a large complex and all he could see were rows and rows of warehouses. That's where he'd find the TIE fighters, he knew, and if he wanted to see them, he had to get down onto the factory level.

The elevator sat waiting for him now. Luke stepped inside and ordered it to descend.

The lower levels were full of people and activity, Luke soon came to realize, and he could only guess that maybe the office workers on the floors above didn't start work as early. Luckily everyone seemed too busy to stop and ask why a strange kid was walking around, but that was just as well. Luke was on a mission to see some ships and he was not to be deterred.

He caught sight of a burly man in a set of coveralls stained with grease and resolved to follow him, knowing from experience that anyone in such a uniform could only lead him somewhere good. He'd gotten through a few doors before he felt a soft hand on his shoulder. Luke turned to see an Aqualish female standing over him.

"Stay with the others, child," she told him in a mildly frustrated tone, and herded him toward a crowd of other boys and girls standing before a viewpane overlooking a hanger. The words of protest died on Luke's lips then, for it had been a long time since he'd seen another kid his own age. These kids looked like they were from some sort of school group. They were wearing uniforms that looked very similar to the dark trousers and white undertunic that Luke was currently wearing, and he supposed it would be easy enough for someone to assume he was part of the group.

He happily assimilated himself, pretending for a moment that he was just another normal schoolboy here on Coruscant. At the front of the queue, a woman in a Sienar Fleet Systems uniform was giving a speech.

"...here to show your class what it is we do here at Sienar. Hopefully by the end of this tour you will all have a better understanding of our company and how it impacts space travel and the defense of our glorious Empire."

Luke was forced to shuffle along with the group when they all started to walk down the narrow corridor. The boy standing next to him was eyeing him skeptically.

"You're not in our class," he said after a long while of studying.

"Um... no," Luke replied. A girl had come up on his other side. Her skin was mildly blue, which meant that she was probably part Pantoran.

"Hi!" she said brightly, "I'm Deme! Are you a new student?" Luke looked from one to the other, realizing there was no escape.

"No, I just came to work with my uncle," he replied, and he felt his cheeks going red. He'd only come down here to see some ships, not talk to anyone. And it felt weird to talk to a girl.

"Wow, that's pretty cool. What school do you go to?" the girl continued, oblivious.

"I don't go to school. I have tutors," Luke mumbled.

"Only rich kids have tutors," the boy on his left sniffed with disdain, "Are you rich?"

"I guess so," Luke answered. His father was most certainly rich, wasn't he? But when Luke thought of rich people, he thought of the Hutts. The Imperial palace wasn't like a Hutt's palace. And he didn't get to do any fun things that rich people were supposed to do.

"Do you have a pool?"

"...yes," said Luke after having to think about it for a while. There were some at the palace, he knew but he wasn't sure if anyone ever used them. A teacher toward the front shushed them and they all fell silent while the Sienar lady continued her speech about TIEs.

"My name is Rory," the boy said after several minutes had gone by. Luke had been certain the other kid was finished talking with him. "What's yours?"

"Luke."

"I guess you can be my friend," Rory replied, and Luke felt a warm and happy feeling begin to bubble up from deep inside, "And Deme's too, if you be nice to her."

"Ok," Luke breathed, daring to believe it could be so simple. He had grown up with all of his friends on Tatooine, and there wasn't anyone else for miles around so there hadn't been much choice.

The class continued down through the warehouses, observing all of the assembly process. Luke lingered at each viewpane, gazing longingly down upon the racks of ships the likes of which he would not be able to pilot for several years. He raised his hand to answer many of the questions being put forward by the woman in the uniform, and he found it strange that none of the other kids seemed to know anything about starfighters.

"Can you show us a TIE Advanced?" Luke asked when he was feeling fairly comfortable about speaking in front of so many people, "I know my father flies a TIE Advanced." The Sienar worker smiled like she didn't believe him.

"The TIE Advanced is still in the prototype phase. Your father must fly a TIE/In. They are very similar."

Luke opened his mouth to argue, but then he realized that he'd never told anyone here his real name, and so no one knew about who his father really was. Over the last few years, Luke had come to see that not everyone on Coruscant had a high opinion of Lord Vader. Luke looked over to Rory and Deme, thinking that they might not want to be friends anymore if they knew. He shut his mouth again and let the tour continue. The woman finished speaking not long after and Luke realized that the group he was walking with would soon be traveling back to wherever their school was. The thought filled him with some dismay and he ended up following them all the way down to the Hyper Rail station.

"Are you coming with us?" Deme asked Luke excitedly.

"I can't," Luke answered, looking down and scuffing his nice boots on the dirty duracrete floor, "I don't have a ticket. And my uncle wouldn't like it."

"Well if your not too busy living your rich boy life you can come to my birthday party next week," Rory offered, puffing out his chest as if pleased with his charity. "It's at the arcade by my apartment building." He pulled a sheet of folded flimsi out of his jacket and handed it to Luke. "Here's the invitation."

Luke accepted the flimsi, thinking about how he hadn't held any sort of printed media in a long time. Ever since coming to Coruscant, most everything was done on a screen of some sort. The Aqualish teacher was making her way through the students, counting heads and Luke knew he needed to make himself scarce. He escaped down to the other end of the platform, so that he was away from the group but still close enough to see his new friends boarding the train after it had pulled up.

Deme appeared in the rear window and waved enthusiastically. Luke found himself lifting his hand in return, a smile appearing on his face. Once the railcar was out of sight, Luke was overcome with a sudden loneliness. His father would never let him see those other kids again, no matter how much he begged. His father had probably never had a friend in his life. There was no way he'd understand. Luke looked down at the flimsi invitation, wondering if he should just rip it up and forget that this whole day had ever happened.

Another train shot by, on express to a more distant station. The force of the wind ripped the flimsi right out of Luke's hand and it fluttered over to the other side of the tracks before becoming lodged in a vent.

Even though Luke had been contemplating destroying it only a moment ago, he suddenly panicked. There was still a chance... a tiny, tiny chance he might be able to go to that party, and he didn't know the address, or the date, or even Rory's full name.

He had to get it back.

.o.o.o.o.o.

"Luke?" Owen said as he entered his office, violently discarding his datapad so that it clattered onto a nearby surface. He spun around to view the room in its entirety, noting that it appeared untouched. "Luke?!" he tried again, this time louder and gruffer. He was met with silence.

"I never learn, I guess," he told his desk chair. Next, he picked up the office com. "Get me security," he barked into it.

Only once Owen had initiated a factory-wide manhunt did he join the search himself with two security personnel in his wake. He went to the showroom first, thinking that to be Luke's most likely endgame. When he turned up with nothing, he visited the two nearest hangers which both revealed themselves to be devoid of mischievous brats. Owen was beginning to sweat now, mind jumping to the worst conclusions. If anything were to happen to that boy, this entire place might end up leveled... with all of them in it. Owen, of course, would die first. Did these innocent people deserve to know how close their own demises were looming should they fail in this search? Some of them might have guessed the boy's identity, even with Luke's minimal media exposure. After all, what other kid might Director Lars care so much about?

Owen's feet eventually took him back to the Hyper Rail station, where he discovered a crowd of people congregating on the platform. A numbness began to spread from the pit of his stomach as he approached. No... It couldn't be...

"Out of the way, godsdamnit!" Owen shouted as he attempted to push through the people. Fortunately the Sienar security officers that had accompanied him took up the job. He followed to where the bystanders were pointing, bringing himself to the edge of the platform. There, about twenty feet below, a boy clung to one of the rails, his feet dangling above open sky and the shifting traffic lanes down further toward the planet's core.

"LUKE!" Owen hollered, but he couldn't bring himself to anger, not when he could see no easy way to get to the boy. The child looked up at the sound of his uncle's voice.

"Uncle Owen!" the boy cried weakly, "Help. I can't hold on anymore!"

"Yes you can!" Owen shouted, because there was no considering the alternative. The blare of an inbound railcar roused him from his momentary shock. He turned to his security officers.

"Force hell! Don't just stand there, shut down the train! Do something!" Stars, what Owen wouldn't give for a bit of Jedi magic in this moment.

He became aware of a bearded, old man standing nearby and recognized him as the homeless fellow that had been holding the 'Order 66 was slaughter' sign. Even in all of the chaos of a young boy's impending death the man was calm and focused. He pulled a blaster from somewhere beneath his tattered clothing.

No. Not a blaster. A grappling gun.

The next parts happened so fast that Owen barely had a chance to process them. The man fired the gun, the hook latching onto something on the opposite wall. He then jumped down and through the rails suspended over open air, but no one saw what came after that because the incoming train thundered by.

Those seconds waiting for the train to pass were some of the longest of Owen's life, but when the view was finally clear, the first thing his eyes saw was Luke tucked under the arm of his mysterious savior while they hung below the rail from the grappling cord.

People cheered and Owen was flooded with relief. When the security officers had managed to pull the two of them back onto the platform Owen saw that Luke was unconscious, but breathing. He ordered for the paramedics to be called. Hell if he was taking any chances.

"He'll be fine, I think," the old man said. Owen studied him up close, realizing that he'd seen that same face before.

"You're a clone," Owen breathed, feeling a strange sense of dejavu, as if this day had come full circle.

"That I am, sir." the man responded with a small smile, "Probably one of the oldest still alive."

"Got a name?" Owen asked. He wasn't sure what he would do with it yet, but he ought to learn it.

"They used to call me..." the man paused, as if it had been so long that he'd forgotten, "Cody."

.o.o.o.o.o.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Meditation proved useless for Obi-Wan. No longer was he capable of clearing his mind. His moods swung violently between utter apathy for this life that should have ended, a retreat back into his broken self, and unstable, unsustainable bouts of rage and anguish. The dark side licked at the corners of his mind, like flames threatening to envelope him.

Days of idleness slid by at an alarming rate. He could feel his strength returning almost to what it had been before his capture. His mind, as well, had developed a new sort of clarity. He could not sit here and wait to die, wait to be killed, wait for life to occur unto him. Such passivity might have been permissible in the days of the Jedi, and yet, those days had passed. As Obi-Wan gained back his self-sufficiency, the Nightsisters slowly stopped their care. It came to a point where they would only leave meals sitting outside his door throughout the day. Obi-Wan was grateful for the solitude even if it brought him no peace.

The Mandalorian... the blonde man... it made sense now, why Obi-Wan had felt that phantom recognition. He recalled old memories of Satine describing her nephew.

" _He'll go far..."_

" _...the prodigy of house Kryze."_

" _...such a determined boy."_

He was here, with Maul. Serving Maul in some capacity. What sort of nightmare was this? It was a torture so intricate, so vile that Obi-Wan could only wish that he'd perished in the cells beneath the Imperial Palace so that he would not have to witness what was taking place before his very eyes.

Yet it seemed this was his fate. It was punishment for failing Satine, failing Anakin, failing Luke, failing the galaxy itself.

He could stay mired in his old ways, cling to those familiar beliefs, and accomplish nothing as he always had. Could continue watching the galaxy burn before his eyes. He could also admit that his own inaction had always been a causal factor. No more. There would be no more failures. No more mistakes. Death had not yet come to claim Obi-Wan, and he ought to have realized that this was the Force's own way of giving him the chance to set things right. And there was a chance that setting things right this time was going to come with the added bonus of some long-awaited retribution.

There was no longer any council to judge him.

Korki Kryze returned to the Night Temple after a long absence and made to resume his daily visits to Obi-Wan's quarters. He entered, holding a few datapads in one hand and his helmet in the other. The stiffness to his expression told Obi-Wan that he knew of what Maul had revealed. The Jedi stared at his bare face for a long moment. The young man had been gifted many of his aunt's same features, Obi-Wan could see the similarities in the shape of his nose and brows as well as the color of the hair and eyes. Perhaps all of House Kryze shared these traits, passed down from some ancient generation.

But there were differences, too, most notably in the shape of the eyes and the quirk of the lips and it led Obi-Wan to wonder about what the young man's father might have looked like. The thought pained him suddenly, invoking feelings of emptiness and envy and he did not understand why until he took a moment to plumb his deepest and most shameful thoughts. If Obi-Wan had chosen to leave the Jedi Order, if fate had taken him in another direction, his own son might have greatly resembled Korki Kryze. It was the simplest and most painful of truths.

"Why are you here?"

"If my presence offends you, I can leave, Master Kenobi," the Mandalorian answered, a picture of polite deference.

"No," Obi-Wan snapped, "Why are you here... with Maul?" Korki opened his mouth to speak but then came up at a loss for words. "Is he blackmailing you?" Obi-Wan continued.

"No."

"Has he threatened you or your family."

"Nothing of the sort."

"Leave this place," Obi-Wan ordered, "That monster murdered your aunt in cold blood and destroyed her life's work. He incited a civil war between your people, assassinated the heads of prominent clans, and dismantled the sector's entire administration. Have you no shame? Have you no loyalty-"

"My aunt was the world to me!" Korki snarled, interrupting Obi-Wan's crescendoing tirade. "She was my inspiration. She was all that I aspired to be. She was a ray of hope in a dark galaxy bent on spreading war and hate." The armored man took a breath, perhaps ashamed for his sudden outburst. He turned away for a moment to set the datapad down on the bedside table, and Obi-Wan could see how his shoulders were tense with anger.

"Then why do you insult her memory?"

"You speak, yet know nothing, Master Kenobi," the young man said darkly, "After her death and after the collapse of the New Mandalorians, the Kryze family was in disgrace. It was clear that there was no place on Mandalore for me or any of my kin. All my life I had been groomed for a career in civil service, a place at my aunt's side. At that time I was lost," Korki explained, his back still toward Obi-Wan and his head bowed, "I have heard a great many things spoken of you, Obi-Wan Kenobi, and not just by Auntie Satine. You are somewhat infamous on my home planet, as I'm certain you already know. They speak of you as the rogue Jedi that came to destabilize Mandalore just as peace was achieved by Death Watch. Rumors of an affair between you and the Duchess only helped to discredit the New Mandalorians and demonize the Jedi in the eyes of the people," he admitted. "But I know the truth was more complicated than that."

"You blame me for her death," Obi-Wan guessed bluntly.

"No," Kryze said firmly, whirling around, "To do that would condemn the feelings she had for you, to discard the simple fact that she would have done anything for you... and for Mandalore. I swore vengeance on the man that had driven the blade through her flesh, But back then, I had no way of obtaining it. Soon after her death, I traveled to the Concord Dawn system and pledged myself to the Protectors, who trained me in the warrior arts. After several years, when I believed myself ready for the confrontation, I began my hunt for Darth Maul. He proved... difficult to locate but eventually I was led here, to this forgotten planet out in the rim. I watched and waited, with vengeance still forefront in my mind, even as I noticed that this planet was in ruin still from the war, and that I was hell-bent on murdering the only man attempting to rebuild it. But as opportunities to strike came and went I realized I could never complete my mission," Korki stated, "Auntie Satine, would have been ashamed. To her, killing would never be a solution, not even to avenge her own death. She would hate me for even considering it," the young man finished acidly.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes a moment, letting the truth of those words hit him. She had been so stubborn sometimes, placing her ideals upon so high a pedestal that not even her own life, her own circumstances marred in a grimy, violent reality mattered in comparison.

"But you never left Dathomir." Obi-Wan observed, confused, incredulous, as he returned his gaze back to the nephew.

"What had I to go back to? The Protectors at Concord Dawn and their petty clan feuds?" Korki laughed bitterly. "I decided that if I could not kill Darth Maul then it would no longer be productive for me to hate him. If I could not hate him then I would have to forgive him, and to forgive him I would have to understand him."

There was powerful logic in those words, enough to rob Obi-Wan of any response. This young man had spoken words worthy of a Jedi master, words that few of even the highest ranking council members would have had the strength to heed. The Mandalorian stepped away from Obi-Wan to draw the woven shade up and away from the window, letting in the twilight sun and casting the room into an orange glow.

Obi-Wan was begrudgingly impressed, and similarly intrigued. Why hadn't Maul turned the boy away or killed him upon learning his intentions? Why had he allowed him to stay? What benefit was the old Sith receiving from this arrangement? Certainly Maul only ever worked to his own benefit...

"You are your aunt's nephew," Obi-Wan remarked quietly, folding his hands into the sleeves of his robes, rage subsided, "And I shall respect your choices even if I do not agree with them, but I stand by what I've said. Leave this place. You've done enough work here, and I'm afraid nothing good ever comes of associating with Darth Maul." He expected the younger man to protest, but instead all he received was a knowing smile.

"You seem to be operating under the assumption that Lord Maul has some sort of sinister purpose for me that I remain blissfully oblivious to," Korki said, "And I am terribly sorry to disappoint you further, Master Kenobi, but it is quite the opposite." He replaced the blue and white helmet over his head, hiding his blonde head from view. His silhouette was framed in the glare of the setting sun."I would see Mandalor's sovereignty restored. I plan to liberate her from the oppressive grip of the Empire and I plan to use Lord Maul and all his connections and resources to that end."

Korki Kryze returned to stand before Obi-Wan. He unclipped something from his belt and Obi-Wan recognized it immediately. It was the Darksaber, the blade that had ended Satine Kryze's life. The younger man held it out.

"Do you believe in second chances, Master Kenobi?" he asked, deceptively soft, "Do you believe you could redeem this blade?"

.o.o.o.o.o.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

.o.o.o.o.o.

"I'm waiting, Lars."

Owen's head snapped up as his train of thought was broken. He was aware that he'd forgotten momentarily that he was in the midst of making a com call, replying to Vader's message that he'd received an hour earlier. The blue likeness of Vader's menacing figure did not look or sound at all pleased. Nor was he likely in the mood to tolerate excuses.

Owen knew he was in trouble.

"I didn't see any harm in taking the boy to work with me, alright?" Owen grunted.

"You saw no harm, and yet he is now in the palace medical wing," Vader retorted dangerously.

"He's fine. It was only a precaution," Owen bit out. He was still uncertain as to how Vader knew the details of what happened so soon. Did he have people inside Sienar reporting to him? Maybe within Owen's own staff? He supposed he should have assumed, should have given such a thing more thought, but nevertheless, he wasn't quite sure how he felt about being spied on like that. Was there no such thing as trust anymore? Maybe not on Coruscant.

"I find your lack of concern for his safety appalling. You consistently fail to understand his position here and the dangers that he faces from not only from sworn enemies of the Empire, but also from nefarious entities here within the capital that would seek to remove both me and my son from the line of Imperial succession to further their own agendas."

He'd said it. He'd never said it aloud before, but Owen had always wondered whether bringing Luke here to his father had created an opportunity for the boy to one day sit where Palpatine did. That was a lot to foist upon a young kid's shoulders. Owen studied the holo of Vader closely, now considering that perhaps the father's ambitions for the son's future were blinding him to the son's emotional needs.

"Luke's been dying to get out of palace lately if you haven't noticed. You ought to let him be a kid now and then. He's treated like some sort of... sacred artifact. He lives in a museum-"

"Do not presume to tell me how to raise my own son! He's not yours any longer!" Vader snarled furiously. He seemed to realize he'd lost a bit more of his composure than he'd intended and a few cycles of his respirator passed before he spoke again. "I see now that placing you in charge of the child's well-being in my absence was a mistake, a mistake I mean to rectify."

"I won't take him from the palace block again," Owen said quickly, realizing the threat that Vader had leveled. If Owen was to lose all his access to Luke, then for what reason could Owen justify remaining on Coruscant? Wasn't that why he'd agreed to stay here?

"If an incident of this nature occurs again under your watch, you can be certain I will have you removed from Luke's life entirely, whether he likes it or not. Have I made myself clear, Lars?"

"Perfectly," Owen conceded with some resentment. It was useless to continue with his complaints if Vader was refusing to listen.

"Inform Luke that I shall speak to him on his recent behavior upon my return."

"I will."

Vader cut the call shortly after, and Owen sighed as the tension fled from the room. At least that was over with and he wouldn't have to wear any high collars for the next few days. He'd taken the call in an empty conference room in the palace's medical wing. As such, it was only a short walk to the room where Luke was still being kept. The boy was resting upon the bed, propped up by pillows and attached to various monitors, but awake and annoyed at being contained in such a fashion. Beru was seated next to him, her face an expression of calm concern as she spoke with her nephew in quiet tones. Luke raised his eyes to the door as Owen entered.

"Was he mad?" Luke demanded to know. He must have figured that his uncle had stepped out answer Vader's summons. Owen couldn't help the anger that surged to the surface. How could Luke have done something so foolish, so reckless...

"Damn right he was," Owen growled after the door snicked shut behind him.

"Good!" Luke huffed childishly as he crossed his arms.

"I don't know what you think you've accomplished with this, boy." Owen warned, striding over and taking the seat next to his wife, "Not only could you have been killed, you've caused problems for a lot of people. Why do you now have to antagonize your father? Don't you see that this only gives him an excuse to keep you shut away in the palace even more?"

Luke looked down, suddenly finding interest in the hem of the white hospital sheet as he considered his uncle's words.

"Do you want him to ban you from ever seeing me or your Aunt Beru ever again?" Luke looked up with these words, regret suddenly coming into his eyes.

"He can't do that!"

"He can and will if something like this happens again, and there's nothing I can do about it," Owen replied and Luke adopted a grimace, knowing that his uncle spoke the truth, and grappling with the perceived unfairness of it all.

Their conversation was cut short when the door to the room opened again to reveal two Red Guards that had taken up posts to either side of it. Between them stood the stooped and hooded figure of the emperor, his presence commanding an instant silence of the three occupants. Beru and Owen hastily got to their feet and bowed after the momentary shock wore off. Luke struggled to do the same, but the various wires attached to his body got in his way sufficiently that he managed to tangle himself in them.

"Goodness, child! There is no need for that. Please remain in the bed," Palpatine chuckled. "May I take this as a sign that you indeed escaped injury?"

"I'm fine, Your Majesty," Luke said quietly, an embarrassed blush creeping into his cheeks. The emperor stepped forward to gently assist the boy in putting the wires to rights, a task that, to Owen, seemed far to menial for an emperor.

"My dear boy, you gave us all quite the scare," Palpatine continued as he laid a withered hand upon Luke's blonde head. "All of us here at the palace would be devastated if anything were to happen to you. You are so very important to us."

"I'm sorry," Luke admitted in a small voice.

"There is no harm done, but I am curious as to how you found yourself in such a dangerous situation, child."

"I... I wanted to see the fighters. And there were other kids visiting from a school, and they wanted to be friends and I followed them to the rail station and I..." Luke hesitated for a moment, as if he didn't particularly want to reveal the next detail "...lost the birthday invitation they gave me. It flew out of my hand, but I got it back right before I slipped." The boy drew out a piece of folded flimsy from his pocket, but lost his grasp on it and it fluttered to the floor. Luke struggled to retrieve it, burdened by wires and an IV, and Owen watched as the flimsi was seized by an invisible force and deposited into the Emperor's hand.

"Well, that is indeed good news," Palpatine said indulgently as he made to give the flimsi back, but he suddenly paused. Owen saw a frown crease his aged face from beneath the heavy cowl as he turned the flimsi over in his hand.

"This card is blank, child."

"What?" Luke said. Quite rudely, he snatched the flimsy back and examined it closely, and immense disappointment settled over him. "But I... but he..." The Emperor folded his hands into his sleeves patiently.

"I am sorry, child," the old man said sympathetically while shaking his head, "Children are often so cruel to one another." Luke drew his knees up to his chest and curled in on himself, clearly hurt by this revelation. "It is no matter. They are unworthy of you," the Emperor continued.

"Yeah..." Luke whispered in a tiny, dejected voice. Owen scowled to himself, suddenly feeling a twinge of anger toward this unknown brat and what he'd done to Luke, but then again, these sort of things happened in reality. Whoever these kids were, they surely weren't of proper status to be associating with someone like Luke anyway and Owen was a bit relieved he wouldn't have to explain to the boy the complexities of his position and why it wouldn't be smart to make friends with such kids.

"It is not wrong to always believe in the best of people," the Emperor was saying to Luke now, "but be cautioned, my young friend, if you do so, they will never fail to disappoint you."

.o.o.o.o.o.

Coruscant never slept. Owen supposed you could say that about any major city on any densely inhabited planet, but truly there was no city more alive in the the least respectable hours than Coruscant, itself, the very center of the galaxy.

In his early months upon this planet, Owen had often found himself overwhelmed with his new life and the insurmountable obstacles that had come with it. As such, he'd sought out the bars in the lower levels, and he'd learned to wear a hood and solar goggles while there.

Dealer's Den attracted a particularly disgusting clientele, and it was perfect for the nights where Owen was feeling a little too rich and kept for his liking. Maybe he'd spent a bit more time there than he'd originally intended. The tender droid was not meant to know his drink even before he took his seat.

He stared down into his glass of Corellian brandy, thinking how, for some reason, it had tasted better on Tatooine. Maybe it had been the heat of the surrounding air making it seem that much more refreshing. Maybe it had been the dirty glass, adding slightly to the salinity of the drink itself. Maybe it had been the smaller, more relaxed atmospheres of the Mos Eisley and Anchorhead cantinas.

Whatever it was, he missed it, and he knew he would never get it back. Oh, he could try. But even if he did somehow end up back at his farm, he could go to those cantinas and order that brandy and pretend his damned hardest that he'd gone back in time, the drink would still be tainted with a hint of regret.

Owen took out the sheet of flimsi he'd recovered from Luke's medical ward after he'd been discharged. He'd found it beneath the bed. It was not blank. There was childish writing upon it detailing a party at some arcade in the industrial district.

So just what sort of trickery had played out earlier? It was downright sinister. And had this card intentionally been left behind for Owen to find it? Was this a warning from the Emperor not to cross him? Owen placed his head in his hands, fighting not to succumb to his paranoia. He was seeing demons everywhere here on Coruscant, reading into every small gesture, suspicious of every good deed. It was not how Owen was meant to live, and it was taking its toll.

"Shmi..." Owen sighed, the word lost in the noise of the loud music. "What am I doing?"

 _What does your heart tell you?_

Distantly, Owen heard the scrape of a chair on the sticky floor. It took him a moment to realize that it was the stool next to him.

"You gonna finish that?"

Owen had been wondering when someone would take the seat. The cantina had been slowly filling up as the night wore on and there were no longer any other chairs available. The tables were filled and the area around the bar was packed. It was a short, muscular man that had sat down next to him. He wore a cap over a dark-haired head and had a nose that had been broken one too many times. He was more clean-cut than most of the folks in the establishment, but Owen could still make out a few tattoos on his forearms. He was looking pointedly at the spice stick that Owen held between his fingers and had yet to light.

"Ah... take it," Owen said, flicking it over to the other man. "I promised my step-mother that I'd quit."

"I promised my son," the other man admitted as he brought the stick to his chapped lips, "It's a work in progress."

They sat in amicable silence for a long time, each downing his own drink. Screens on the walls flashed the scores of ongoing sports games. Others scrolled through pictures of criminals with bounties on their heads for the benefit of the boozing hunters. A holo in the corner was displaying stats of ships entered in some race. Most people had their attention focused there.

That's right. The Kessel Run was tonight. No wonder the place was packed. Owen settled in, preparing to lose himself in the race for a few hours. The next ship was a battered, old YT freighter, and Owen was a bit surprised when the spacer next to him put down a hefty bet on it to win.

"How in the infinite galactic hells do you expect that piece of junk to win?" Owen had to ask. Thus began an enjoyable conversation on ship mechanics and the merits and drawbacks of certain customizations.

"You know your stuff, I'll give you that," Owen said when the race concluded and the YT freighter had taken the prize.

"I should hope so," the other man laughed, "I make a living putting ships together over at Sienar."

"Huh, no kidding?" Owen grunted, "Small galaxy. Me too."

"Hm, you look familiar," the other man said, now studying Owen with renewed interest, perhaps trying to see beneath the darkened lenses "What part of the compound you in?" And Owen realized his mistake too late. The other man startled violently as he came to the dreaded realization. Owen reached out and grabbed the back of his jacket before he could fall off his stool or make a run for it.

"Don't ya dare make a scene, alright? I like this shit cantina. I want to come back," the farmer growled, giving the man a shake. Owen raised his voice as the tender droid rolled past, "Droid, get his man a shot." Now the man sat rigidly in his seat, too terrified to look over at Owen.

"Forgive me, sir. I never meant to be so informal..."

"Trust me, you've nothing to worry about." The droid came back and placed the shot glass on the table but the other man didn't touch it. Owen extended his hand. "The name's Lars," he said. The poor fellow stared at the appendage for a long moment before taking it hesitantly.

"Tsak Weir," the other man rasped weakly.

Owen sat back in his chair and finally let go of his grip upon the other man's jacket, allowing him his freedom to flee if he wanted. The farmer reluctantly slid another spice stick from the package lying on the bar. His rule was one a night, and only while at the cantina, but he suddenly felt that the situation called for it.

Damn... just when he'd thought he'd made a friend. No wonder Luke was having so much trouble. They sat in tense silence for a while and Owen filled the air around them with colored smoke.

"Ah hells. I'm not gonna eat you. I don't have any of them freak mind powers, if that's what's got ya shittin' yourself," Owen exhaled.

"I always figured that anyone that had the credits to spend in some place nicer would do just that," the man said shakily, as if amazed by his own daring.

"Funny. I used to think the same thing. Truth is, Mr. Weir, is that not all of us were made for that sort of finery. Makes some of us uncomfortable. Me? I like to be reminded of where I come from. Now take that shot, for stars' sake." Weir did as ordered, hands trembling as he fumbled with the glass.

"While I've got you here, I need to ask a few things. You don't have to answer anything. I'm just concerned for the fine men and women I represent at Sienar, alright, and I need to know what's going on down on the factory level."

"I'll answer what I can, sir," the dark-haired man said in a whisper.

"Good man. Have you heard anything about a government contract?"

"Several weeks ago, technicians in various departments were sent memos regarding a government project that we would be required to assist with. The memo mentioned that it was top secret and the details were classified, to be expounded on only once we were on location."

"Will you go?"

"I am a loyal citizen and I will serve my Emperor however I can," Weir responded stiffly. He clutched at his half-empty pint. Owen could imagine what was going through the man's head. He had a son that he'd mentioned when he'd first sat down. He wouldn't want to leave his boy.

"If you're amenable to it, Mr. Wier, I'd like for us to help each other out. You see, I fought to keep you on Coruscant," Owen admitted, and with that he'd caught the other man's attention. Weir looked up sharply. "Now, the goons over in the military's research and development think they can just come along and lift my reliable workers, throw money at them and expect them to happily walk away from their families and homes for a significant period of time. It will interest you to know that we are in similar positions. You see, I'm in the dark about this project just as much as you are and as it stands, I've got no power to refuse anyone coming in and waving about paperwork with the Emperor's stamp of approval." Owen took a drag on his spice stick. "Director Krennic could have easily contracted out some other company to do this work, but Mr. Sienar himself was adamant about dipping his hands into this highly classified cookie jar. I'd like to find out why."

The poor fellow, built tough like a spacer, had shrank in on himself and was looking horribly overwhelmed, perhaps recognizing that he'd just been dragged into something way bigger than he'd ever imagined for himself.

 _Misery loves company, pal._

"You want... an informant?" he croaked.

"Sand hells! Don't say it like that. Makes me feel like one of them," Owen hissed, bitterly dejected. This was wrong. This was so wrong. But he was starting to realize that he had to play the game. Coruscant was just one, massive game. "It'll be dangerous... I, uh, understand if you need to refuse, if the risk is too much."

The other man stared at Owen for a while. His face was still pale, and beads of cold sweat had collected upon his forehead, but there was something hard in his eyes.

"I..." Wier cleared his throat and began again, "When I was younger, during the Clone Wars, I spent several months on Kashyyk as part of a corporate internship. I kept in contact with many of the Wookies I met there, or at least I've tried..." he shook his head suddenly, perhaps thinking that Owen wouldn't want to hear his story. "I've heard things, sir, about Weapons Research and Development. Terrible things. And I know that more often than not, people that go to work for Orson Krennic are never heard from again. If I do this for you, can I get a guarantee that my family will be looked after if... if the worst should happen?"

Were he still on Tatooine, Owen might have laughed and told this fellow he was full of it, that only nutjobs believed in government conspiracies, but he'd spent too much time on Coruscant now. Nothing was outside the realm of possibility.

"You have my word," Owen promised, exhaling another spice-filled breath. "Get me some info, and I'll get you back safe."


End file.
